I
and poetry speaks to my poetry
in the echoes of noises in the heart of a hole
this hole is my heart...
these are the tears of my hands
the pains of the claps that killed emptiness and not the flea...
of youthful chants of sorrowful psalms
in the blurring tomorrows of the old testaments...
these toothless wrinkled gluttons still want meat
they crush the characters of tomorrows within gummy teeth...bloody
in the covetousness of mobile adverbials...
II
i hear voices rend in shrills
like the chorus of metals in the skulls of tambourines
like the branches stomped by the wildness of the wind
shaken bruised and broken...
in silenced cacophonies of falls and frails...
and there are the creased voices in the tangle of sheets
craving for folds and smoothness...
tell me where again do we find rhythms for celebration?
when our drum-skins are beaten to tears and tears
when our drummers are maleficent at heart...
III
these voices eat me deep
like a gluttonous distance
who dines on the meals of the fast and furious...
i feel heavy and defeated
like an incomplete destiny of a phrase...
only if these were not cacophonies of dirges
we would have blessed our legs with beads of rhythm...
and dance
even on the face of a can concession...
how do one dance the melodies of war?
IV
i swallow a thousand times
to drench in pleas in mucous libation
for the clustered spirits of noises within me...
i hear piercing whines
cacophonies in the pockets of giant terrors...
shall i not scream from their screams
and cream your ears frustrating tingles?
shall i not scream from their severed screams
screams from scorching torture and silence?
and spell your luxury of sleep restless ghouls and cacophonies...
V
when we tuned in the rhythms of felicitations
for the hairs that grew over our baldness...
did our songs not melt into distressed cacophonies?
did we not summon tidal waves of cries for our eyes?
when we found out we have gone bald again...
what stories do we tell our children?
do we tell them the lies they told us?
when we have promised them the candies of hope
and boast brightness for their days of darkness...
tell me...do we return again with this empty hopes?
VI
i feel cacophonies burst in my bowels
like formidable streams of dexterity
in the arms of a passionate drummer...
i am a market of noises
am i a market of noises?
could that be the beats of rains
or the cheers of dancing beads over the belly of the gourd?
ah! it is the weeps of soulful spirits
the spirits of mothers who lost their gold
to the wickedness of the ballot boxes...
VII
they steal away the rays of our brightness
from the blessedness of our suns...
they spill darkness on the canvass of our days
the darkness in the city of their hearts...
they play the deaf to our cacophonies of succour...
how they maim our binds of friendliness
with keen daggers of hostility and blood...
they break in asunder our placenta of love
and rip-rape our sister, peace
under uncouth libidos and dangles of wars...
VIII
our peace has the price-tags of wars
the peace we never bought...we never had...
a minute silence...
booms.bursts.fires.blasts.sands.blood.bloods.wails.voices
echoes...cacophonies in pods of paradoxes-deadly and death
if you want peace prepare for war
if you do not want peace prepare for war
if you want war prepare for war...
pieces.piecemeal.wars.peace.pieces.piecemeal.peace.wars
how do wars find peace?
IX
i have walked the night
in the nakedness of darkness...unclad
my ears crave for silence...
and within the silence is the loudness
of my heart...louder than silence...
the noises for alms of many mouths
the noises of street children estranged and violated
the noises of the mothers and daily dirges to the sun
the noises of pleading victims...corpses awaiting coffins...
the noises of scenes hollowed, hidden in my heart...
X
and yet it is these noises within me
dry bones fluting for flesh... for life...
craving for breath
the breath of peace from putrid belch of wars...
crying... ‘do not give up on me’
i am a poet of troubled noises
a poet of tears
i shall wing and bellow the ears of heavens...open
i shall scurry and burrow into the soul of poesy...deep
until these cacophonies trade for celebration.
